


Two of a Kind

by YumYumPM



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Genre: Future Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-15
Updated: 2014-09-15
Packaged: 2018-02-17 12:53:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2310311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YumYumPM/pseuds/YumYumPM
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Toward the end of their partnership our gallant agents spent more time apart then working together.  When Napoleon finds out that Alexander Waverly has thrown the Russian to the wolves and Illya's gotten himself into deep trouble of his own making, he pulls out all the stops.  After all they are two of a kind.</p><p>Italian translation was from Babelfish - Sorry if it's not right.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Two of a Kind

Two a.m. European time 

Ominous footsteps sounded hollowly in the dimly lit steel corridor that lay miles under foreign soil. Foreign that is to the man whose footsteps were disturbing the quiet solitude of the night.

Napoleon Solo, dressed impeccably as always, approached the two huge behemoths that guarded the doorway that was his destination. The two giants straightened, their bodies tensed, as they came together, effectively blocking the door. The American came to a stop directly in front of them, confident of his right to be there. Both men reached for their guns, making it plain that he could go no further. “Our orders are that no von is allowed access,” the deep voice shattered the silence.

The two men, prepared to take action should it be warranted, watched as the man in front of them raised his hands in surrender. Napoleon’s face gave nothing away and they tensed slightly as he slowly brought his hands to his jacket and opened it so they could observe that he was unarmed. Even slower he reached into the inside pocket of his jacket, and with two fingers removed a yellow card.

 

“Not even Number 1 of Section 2, Operations and Enforcement New York?” Solo’s American accent, affable not brusque, conflicted with the foreign accents of the men in front of him. It was not his intention to confront them in anger, which would only result in his being turned away.

The two men exchanged brief glances. They were not paid to think, just follow orders. None had been given that said to refuse entrance to a superior. They, of course, had heard of Napoleon Solo, the head of Section 2 in North America. Who hadn’t? His exploits were legendary. They  
did not know what could have brought him here, all the way from America, and they didn’t want to know. Reluctantly they stepped aside, allowing him to pass. 

The door swished open on his approach and Napoleon took one step inside. As the door slide shut behind him, what he saw shocked him. The room was dimly lit and sitting behind a flimsy table, his eyes downcast, sat his partner, Illya Kuryakin. His once white shirt, open at the collar, had its sleeves rolled up, showing the needle marks that had pierced the skin. His arms dangled limply over the arms of the chair. 

The blond hair, somewhat longer then it had been the last time Napoleon had seen it, hung limply against his head. As if noticing he was not alone, Illya’s head slowly came up. The blue eyes, vacant of any emotion, cut through Napoleon like a knife, and he sucked in a deep breath. Illya’s face held a ghastly grey tint, the blue eyes held no spark, the lips were dry and parched. He looked like death warmed over.

Napoleon moved silently to the sink, pouring a glass of water that he set in front of his partner. He watched as hands that trembled slightly picked the glass up, Illya’s Adams apple moving as he gulped the water down. He winced in sympathy as the water hit the empty stomach, and Illya rose, knocking his chair over, barely making it to the sink in time to vomit. Napoleon was behind him in an instant, a hand on the heaving back in commiseration. The body beneath it tensed and Napoleon drew his hand back as Illya turned, staggering to the nearby cot, where he fell upon it. 

God almighty, what have you gotten yourself into? Solo wondered. Most of this past year had been spent at opposite ends of the globes by the two agents. In fact, this was the first time Solo had seen or spoken with the Russian in months.

Illya lay on the cot, one leg bent, an arm thrown over his face, dismissing his partner’s presence completely. His feet were bare, and he sported no belt. The powers that be were taking no chances.

Angered by the dismissal, Napoleon moved to the table and the three folders that lay there. He picked up the first folder and opened it. It contained a full report on the incident, capture, and interrogation of his partner. Nothing new there, the Russian had been his usual reticent self, refusing to respond. The second folder contained the toxicology report, negative, on his partner. The third held pictures taken from surveillance cameras, which clearly showed the Russian breaking into and photographing vital documents inside a carefully guarded vault. Napoleon’s interest centered upon those photos. Damn, there was no mistake. It was definitely Illya. The last photo was a close up of the younger man, as he was surrounded by a horde of U.N.C.L.E. agents. The eyes … there was something haunting about the eyes.

“How much do you remember?” Napoleon’s voice was impassive – detached from any feelings.

Illya said nothing for a long time. Finally he turned a steely glare toward the dark-haired agent. “Go. Just go. I do not want you here. I do not need you here.”

“Illya, you can’t possible mean that,” Napoleon kept his voice hard as he protested.

Illya closed his eyes. “Leave.”

Napoleon marshaled his thoughts, preparing to argue. He hadn’t come all this way for nothing. By gum, Illya was his partner. His. He wasn’t about to let him be railroaded. Napoleon was torn, however. Torn between believing his friend, and explaining the evidence, which was damning. Before he could say or do anything however, the door behind him swished open. 

“Mr. Solo, you will do me the kindness of following me to my office,” the cultured voice of the head of U.N.C.L.E. Northeast said coldly.

Busted. 

“I’ll be back,” Napoleon called back over his shoulder as he turned to follow Carlos Ferenti. 

“Don’t bother,” floated after him as the door slid shut. A million things went through Solo’s mind on that walk to Carlos’ office. Could this be all a set up, a sting to catch an elusive mole? If so why was he left out of the loop? Could Illya be brained washed? Under someone else’s control? It had happened before. Nothing … nothing short of a confession, and maybe not even that, would make him believe in his partner’s guilt.

Ferenti rounded his big ornate desk and sat down. He didn’t offer the American agent a seat. “So, Mr. Solo. Does Alexander know you are here,” he glanced at his watch. “and if he does why was I not informed? Why are you here at 3:30 in the morning?” The tone could have melted butter.

“I would have thought it was obvious,” Napoleon said just as courteously.

Ferenti’s voice turned abrupt. “This is none of your concern. Go back to New York.”

Napoleon looked intently at the Section Chief before placing his hands on the desk top and leaning over. “Illya Kuryakin is a Section 2 agent, under my command and therefore my responsibility.”

“No longer,” Carlo said coldly as he tossed a teletype across the desk to Solo. “Go, Mr. Solo. Go to your hotel and rest. This evening you will fly out of Geneva and go back to New York.” The command brooked no argument.

Napoleon reluctantly picked up the telex and read it. Keeping his thoughts to himself, he glanced at Ferenti’s insufferably pleased face. Without a word, Solo turned and left the room. Once outside the door, he crumpled the paper, throwing it to the floor. He’d go, but only as for as his hotel. 

On the flight over, Napoleon had had plenty of time to make plans for any contingency. He strolled nonchalantly through the almost vacant halls of U.N.C.L.E. Geneva, stopping to smile and flirt with the receptionist. Exiting the complex, Napoleon walked four blocks. Finding a public phone, he called a number he had memorized. It only took five minutes for him to outline his plans. He walked on to the nearest hotel, a small inconspicuous place. Ten minutes later he was in his room, not bothering to check for electronic bugs. If U.N.C.L.E. wanted to know what he was up to, let them try to find out.

His coming to Geneva had been spur of the moment. It had been chance or Solo’s luck that he found out about this at all. He had managed to procure a seat on the first plane out - without informing Waverly. It seemed only fair since Waverly had not seen fit to enlighten him of the Russian’s predicament. Well two could play that game.

Three hours after his phone call found Napoleon at the American Consulate. Calling on favors owed, he easily managed to get a member of the embassy staff out of bed. The next few hours were spent getting everything he would need together. Solo managed to make it back to U.N.C.L.E. Geneva by ten.

As he approached the interrogation area, Napoleon was surprised that no one challenged him. They probably thought him properly cowed. The door slid open automatically.

“No … no … no,” the Russian’s voice was weary.

“You will confess,” demanded the voice of his interrogator, Hans Grubber.

“Not without the advice of counsel,” Solo said placidly.

Two heads came up sharply - the black eyes of the interrogator seared into Napoleon’s - and the blond head of his partner.

“And who might that be?” 

“Me.”

“You!” Grubber interjected incredulously. This man reminded Napoleon of Gerald Strothers, Harry Belden’s arrogant second in command, the same haughty tone of voice, even if the accent was different.

Napoleon didn’t bother to explain that over the past year he’d felt the urgent need to finish a career choice he’d set aside to become an U.N.C.L.E. agent, managing to accomplish it in record time. When Solo wanted something bad enough he was more than capable of accomplishing anything. It didn’t hurt that he’d gotten the basics out of the way before enlisting and serving in Korea. That meant he was more than half way to his goal when U.N.C.L.E. had approached him. He had secretly, with Mr. Waverly’s approval, continued to take courses so that once he’d really put his mind to it after an intensive twelve months he was now a full member of the bar, and licensed to practice in any state or country of his choosing, thanks to his standing in U.N.C.L.E. Ironic in a way. It was with a great deal of satisfaction that he tossed the bundle of papers down on the table.

Napoleon watched as Grubber picked up the documents, flipping through them before passing them to another man, who unobtrusively had been sitting in the room.

“My name is Victor Grossman, legal counsel for U.N.C.L.E. Geneva.” His sharp eyes perusing the documents in his hand. “Am I to understand that you are legal counsel for U.N.C.L.E. North America?” Grossman’s eyes left the papers and focused on the American.

“No.”

Grossman set down the papers. “Herr Kuryakin’s case is rather unusual. He is not a citizen of the United States, and can expect no protection from them and certainly not from the country of his birth … nor from U.N.C.L.E.”

All of Napoleon’s attention was focused on Grossman, to the exclusion of all else. “This is a personal matter.”

“It vill take a few minutes to verify. You vill refrain from doing anything until then,” Grossman stated before leaving the room, taking the documents with him.

Napoleon turned his full attention to Grubber, though he would prefer not to have to deal with the man at all. “I want a full psychological profile done on him,” Napoleon said, his tone even, tilting his head toward the seated blond agent.

“Already done.” Grubber, his eyes glinting, with a smugly confident smile plastered to his face pushed a folder toward the American agent. 

Napoleon didn’t even bother looking at the folder. “An unbiased profile.” Napoleon retorted as he slid the unopened folder back to Grubber. He reached into the inside pocket of his jacket, pulled out a card and tossed it across the table. The card, one that he had obtained from his friend in the embassy, contained the name of a qualified expert. 

Grubber picked up the card, his countenance displaying open contempt.

The man everyone was talking about, but not paying attention to, finally entered the proceedings and uttered a defiant. “No.”

“Excuse me,” Napoleon said politely, a grim smile on his face, never taking his eyes off Grubber. Gripping the front of the Russian’s crumpled shirt, Napoleon jerked him out of the chair and up easily, then forcing him against a nearby wall. Placing a bent arm across the slighter man’s chest, holding the tense body in place, Napoleon brought his mouth to the Russian’s ear, his lips barely parting as he whispered angrily, “We need this report.” 

With a defiant gesture, the blond shaggy head shook negatively.

Napoleon’s arm pushed against his partner forcefully. “You will do this,” Napoleon hissed, his eyes hard. The body, held in place seemed to shrink, the rebelliousness gone. A slight nod and Napoleon released him.

“And vhen do you vish this profile to be done?” Grubber’s sarcastic voice broke into the moment.

Still facing the wall, not watching as Illya went back to his seat, Napoleon took a moment to straighten his jacket. “Right away,” he said. Not bothering to look back, he walked out through the doorway.

***

The sharp resounding click of heels on the hard floor reflected Napoleon Solo’s anger and disappointment. The independent psychological report had mirrored the official U.N.C.L.E. report. The actual events were blocked from the Russian’s memory, but he had not denied that the events had occurred. Napoleon had not realized how much he had pinned his hopes on Illya somehow being controlled by an outside force. Napoleon’s entire defense plans had counted on it. He wasn’t - and Solo wanted to know why. He would know the reason why. There had to be a reason.

The look on his face would have sent the guards scurrying, had there been any. There were none. None were now needed. Their prisoner was proving to be extremely docile. This fact alone caused Napoleon great concern. Docility was not normal for the taciturn Russian. Hitting the button that granted Napoleon entrance, he waited for the door to slide open and entered. 

Illya lay on the cot, his eyes staring up at the ceiling. To Napoleon’s trained eyes the Russian looked worse than he had yesterday. “Why?” Napoleon demanded.

Illya stubbornly refused to respond.

“Look here, if I didn’t know better I would think you went out of your way to get caught,” Napoleon snapped angrily. When Illya turned so his face was to the wall, the realization hit Napoleon. “You did, didn’t you,” he said softly. 

Long minutes passed before the Russian, ignoring the question, asked, “What day is this?”

The question came out of left field, but puzzled, Napoleon told him. “What does it matter what day it is?”

“My birthday,” Illya uttered softly to no one. A bitter laugh escaped as he turned facing the wall, curling into a fetal position.

His birthday? Napoleon froze in shock, his memory going to the same date one year ago. Oh no, dear lord, no, he thought as he retreated from the room and slumped against the wall next to the door as it slid silently shut. Damn, double damn.

After the Abominable Snowman Affair, Napoleon had made a point of learning the actual date of his partner’s birth. Scorpio, the Year of the Tiger did not cut it. Napoleon planned that when that date came around again, they would celebrate, making up for all the years past. Over the years, the longer the two worked together, Napoleon found himself enjoying the Russian’s company both inside and outside of U.N.C.L.E.

Having procured two tickets to the Russian ballet, Napoleon had, smugly confident in his ability, coaxed the Russian into wearing a tuxedo. The performance had been memorable. Napoleon’s attention never wavered from all the lithe figures, gracefully moving across the stage in tights, only sometimes turning toward his friend to make sure he too was enjoying himself. 

“Well?” Napoleon asked, folding his program and stuffing it into his jacket pocket, as they descended the stairway following the performance.

“Well, what?” Illya, walking slightly in front, responded mildly.

Napoleon shook his head and growled, then he noticed the smugly satisfied smile on his partner’s face.

“Napoleon!” someone called from across the lobby. Napoleon turned toward the sound, surprised to find an old acquaintance, Rodney Tate, hailing him. Tate rushed forward and clasped his hand, clapping Napoleon on the shoulder. “Long time no see. Will we be seeing you at the club tonight?” 

Napoleon hesitated perhaps just a fraction too long, “Perhaps, Rodney,” he muttered.

Rodney, taking it with good grace, turned toward the blond standing next to Napoleon, “Wonderful … bring your friend.” With a flash of teeth and a wink for Illya, Rodney vanished into the crowd.

Napoleon turned to Illya who stood there, one eyebrow raised, patiently waiting for an explanation. A flush stole over Napoleon’s face as he realized his lack of manners by not introducing the two men. Tate, an acquaintance from years back, was the last person Solo wanted to see. Napoleon opened his mouth, but couldn’t bring himself to explain. The explanation was too involved.

On his sixteenth birthday, Napoleon’s grandfather on his father’s side, an ambassador, had decided to introduce the young Napoleon to the pleasures of feminine company. Several visits to an extremely high-class house of prostitution had proven most educational. The ladies of that establishment had taken a liking to the young Solo and had taken great pains in initiating the young man into the mysteries and delights of sex. It was this knowledge that attracted women to Napoleon to this day. 

On his seventeenth birthday, his other grandfather, the admiral, without his daughter’s consent had decided it was time to introduce his grandson to the other side of coin. With his usual foresight and hoping his grandson would follow in his career choice, the admiral had arranged for Napoleon’s introduction to The Club. The Admiral was aware that months spent away from family and female companionship could cause men to turn to one another for sexual relief. Experience now could save much pain later, he reasoned. Though Napoleon chose not to follow in his grandfather’s footsteps, the lessons he learned would eventually stand him in good stead during the long, lonely nights of his tour in Korea. He made it a practice to visit the private club after his return, though since he’d joined U.N.C.L.E his visits had cut back to once or twice a year. Waverly of course knew, and did not approve. He merely asked Napoleon to be discreet about it, which he most certainly was. Even Illya had no idea.

In spite of whatever misgivings that Napoleon had, seeing as his wallet was a little flat, he knew the cuisine at The Club was outstanding and as he was a member… free. It might prove an ideal solution, for then he would not be forced to ask Illya to contribute to his own birthday supper. It couldn’t hurt, since no one entering the private club and not a member would discern anything unusual.

“Hungry?” Napoleon asked instead. “The Club has excellent food.” 

Illya nodded his agreeability. 

So the two men had arrived at the stately mansion that housed The Club. The atmosphere was formal, the majority of members wearing black tie. Napoleon was greeted profusely and shown to a private table in a tasteful dining area. The tables were covered with crisp white tablecloths, fine china and water goblets. Impressed, Illya commented, “I always knew you were a bit of a snob.” 

They had no more than sat down when a waiter arrived with a bottle of wine for their approval. No menus were offered and almost immediately an appetizer of fresh shrimp was served. This was followed by a light soup, with just a hint of lemon that sent the Russian’s taste buds into a spasm of epicurean delight. The main course proved to be prime rib, cooked to perfection. No sooner had they finished then a salad of asparagus with light vinaigrette was served. Illya was beginning to think he had died and gone to heaven. “How is it you have never mentioned this place before?” he queried as coffee and dessert were served.

Napoleon had looked up just then to find a familiar face coming toward them. Instead of answering Illya’s question Napoleon hurriedly excused himself, moving to cut the well-dressed older man off before Illya could see him.

“Napoleon,” Blake said with pleasure in his voice. “It has been quite awhile. What say we get together later tonight? Perhaps relive old times.” He reached up a hand to caress Napoleon’s handsome face.

Napoleon leaned into the touch before catching himself. “Not tonight, please,” he pleaded, hoping to put the other man off. “I’m with a friend.”

Blake glanced over Napoleon’s shoulder, catching sight of the blond head at the table Napoleon had just left. “Why not ask him to join us. It could be fun.” 

Napoleon shook his head, not liking the glint in Blake’s eyes. Blake moved in close to give an intimate good-by, but Napoleon backed away abruptly, leaving Blake to reluctantly shrug. “Perhaps another time.” 

Napoleon had returned to the table. Something in Illya’s quizzical gaze caused Napoleon to look away. The meal had ended awkwardly. Napoleon had found it difficult to face Illya and so their partnership suffered as they gradually drifted apart. 

Napoleon straightened, hitting his head against the steel wall, his heart rate slowly returning to normal. Had Illya somehow sensed the underlying nuances? He must have. Now Illya knew what his partner was capable of. Not that Napoleon regretted his past activities. Just that he had not been and still was not sure how Illya would take it. 

Would Illya be willing to work with a man who had sex with other men? Evidently not, for Illya’s actions had been deliberate. Illya was too good at his job. It was no accident that he was caught. Not to mention his response to Napoleon’s presence here that obviously confirmed it. Knowing the possible reason why was of no help. Had Illya gone to such lengths just to be rid of him? 

It was bad enough that his planned defense was blown all to hell. There was now no way to legally affect Illya’s release. Whatever he did would have to be done soon. An inkling of an idea trickled in his brain. Napoleon pushed off the wall, heading down the corridor and was out and long gone by the time Grubber had a chance to view the surveillance tapes and send a man to find out what it all meant.

***

Instead of sleeping, Napoleon Solo paced the floor of his hotel room. He had long ago discarded his jacket and tie and his nimble mind was first latching onto and then rejecting one plan after another. His mind finally lit on one that showed promise. Napoleon reviewed it mentally, looking for flaws and finding ways around them. After several hours of pacing and thinking, Napoleon, with a smile of triumph, was sure he had a plan that he could live with. He was going to need help if he was to pull this off and he knew just the person to call. Fortunately no one in U.N.C.L.E. knew of her existence. Napoleon reached for the phone, and just as quickly pulled back. Using the phone in this room was undoubtedly not wise.

Confident in his plan, Napoleon drew on his jacket and lit out the door. By the time the elevator hit the main floor his actions were more studied. If he was any judge of character, and he was, Napoleon knew Grubber would have an agent stationed in the lobby to keep an eye on him. Spotting the agent was not difficult. The man stood out a mile; Napoleon made a mental note to look into changes to the surveillance training for agents at a later date. Now was a good time to lead him on a merry chase. 

Ignoring the agent stationed to watch him, Napoleon casually exited the building, walking for the shopping district just few blocks away. People were crowding the streets going from shop to shop. It was easy enough to slip into one of the buildings lining the street, mixing in with the many shoppers and emerge outside another, losing his tail.

 

Passing the Flower Clock, Napoleon paused to admire its beauty and make sure he was not followed. Turning down the Rue St. Legei he continued to walk until he came to the Old Town of Geneva. It occurred to Napoleon that Illya would enjoy it here, exploring the area well known for its antique dealers, art galleries, and antiquarian booksellers. The thought that Illya might never again have the chance disturbed him and Napoleon turned away. He stopped at the foot of the one hundred fifty-seven steps that led to St. Peters Cathedral to ponder his next step. Quite sure he was no longer followed, Napoleon stopped at a phone kiosk. Then he dialed the number he had memorized many years ago.

“Senora Carlotta Rossetti,” Napoleon requested, his eyes constantly scanning the area. He held his breath. What if she was no longer there? 

“Un momento per favore.” One moment please.

Carlotta Rossetti’s lilting voice filled the line. “Ciao.”

“Carlie?”

“Si. Napoleone? È quello voi? Siete nella difficoltà, sì?” Yes. Napoleon? Is that you? You are in trouble, yes? The affectionate surprise in her voice changed to accusatory.

“Che cosa li incita a pensarli sono nella difficoltà?” What makes you think I’m in trouble? Napoleon asked, the smile in his voice masking any indignation at the question.

“È soltanto quando siete nella difficoltà che ascolto di voi,” It is only when you are in trouble that I hear from you. Carlie teased.

“Lo odio quando siete di destra.” I hate it when you are right.

“Sono sempre di destra.” Carlie's laughter floated over the phone line as she chided him. Then she got right to the point. “Che cosa è voi bisogno?” I am always right. What is it you need?

It took only a few moments for Napoleon to recite his requirements.

“Lo avrete. Domani farà?” You shall have it. Will tomorrow do?

“Si.”

“Arrivederci, fino a domain.” Good bye, until tomorrow.

“Arrivederci, Carlie, e grazie.” Goodbye, Carlie, and thank you.

By the time Napoleon hung up the receiver, he felt as if a weight had been lifted. He was risking a lot with this plan. It would mean burning all his bridges behind him. 

***

It was late when Napoleon opened the door to his hotel and reached for the light switch. The sixth sense that all good agents possess told him he was not alone and had him drawing his gun in one smooth movement.

“I’ll take that,” Grubber’s voice informed him. Napoleon let the gun hang loosely from his finger as Grubber reached over to take the gun away.

Napoleon switched on the light to find not only Hans Grubber but Carlos Ferenti waiting for him. Pocketing his room key, Napoleon asked, “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

Ferenti was not in the mood for pleasantries. “Where were you today?”

Napoleon smiled, his eyes widened innocently. “Oh here and there. I took a stroll through Old Geneva.” 

A snort from Grubber told Napoleon he wasn’t believed.

Napoleon shrugged; he really didn’t care if they believed him or not. He had spent the rest of day exploring the area around St. Peters Cathedral. He had even ventured up all those stairs and spent over an hour taking in the view. 

Carlos was looking at Napoleon with disapproval. Pushing himself out of his seat, Carlos strode to the door. He turned back to make his case clear. “If it were not for Alexander, I would have you brought up on charges as well.”

Grubber pocketed Napoleon’s gun. With a smirk on his face, he moved well into Napoleon’s personal space. “Your little … partner, Herr Solo,” he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “is as guilty as sin. Tomorrow I look forward to his getting exactly vhat he deserves.”

Napoleon said nothing, letting the man’s beady stare slide off him. When the two men were gone, a sly smile touched Napoleon’s face and he said softly to himself, “We shall see.” 

***

That night Napoleon slept the sleep of the just. It was the first truly good night’s sleep he’d had in weeks. Money was no problem. Financially he was in good shape, having withdrawn all his funds before leaving New York. At the time he had not been sure why he had done that, but now he was glad he had. Everything else, his New York apartment and personal possessions, were replaceable. Even the confiscation of his gun did not bother him. Getting a replacement would not be hard and where he was going he wouldn’t need it. There were only two major items left to be done, and they depended on Illya. Otherwise, he was packed and ready to go.

Grubber had been right about one thing, Napoleon mused. Illya was guilty as charged. He had no idea how Illya would be dealt with. Would the sentence be imprisonment or would a more permanent solution be the result? 

***

Unknown to anyone but himself, Napoleon entered U.N.C.L.E. Geneva headquarters for a final time. He smiled charmingly at the receptionist as she handed him his badge and informed him that everyone was waiting in the conference room on level two. Before Napoleon could turn away, she picked up and held out a folded slip of paper and said, “Oh, Herr Solo? This came for you. It was forwarded from your hotel.” 

Clearing his throat, Napoleon read the note, a reminder to pick up his dry-cleaning. Not that it was. Reading between the lines, he was pleased to note that everything was running on schedule. Giving her a nod of thanks and careful not to show his satisfaction, he kept his face impassive as he pocketed the slip of paper before proceeding down the hallway. 

Napoleon had always felt that spies were essentially nothing more than good actors. This meeting was merely a farce and he was about to do the best acting job in his career.

He was stopped before entering the conference room and his briefcase searched, nothing even remotely suspicious was found. Pausing to adjust his jacket and his expression, Napoleon took a step as the sliding door opened. Replacing the conference table where four smaller ones. Behind one sat Carlos Ferenti, flanked by two senior members of U.N.C.L.E. Geneva. Directly behind him on the wall were two monitors. At one of the two smaller tables facing Ferenti, a smug and confident Grubber sat. Napoleon, ignoring the insufferable man, approached the other table, setting his briefcase upon it.

Making a show of taking out some files, a pad and pencil, which were more or less props, Napoleon glanced toward the front of the room. Carlos was in a whispered conversation with one of the guards, who nodded and hurried away. The elderly man then reached forward, flicking two switches, then turned in his chair to face the screens as they lit up. Each screen held a different face, one that of Alexander Waverly, in New York, and the other Gabhail Samoy in Calcutta. After exchanging greetings, Mr. Waverly noticed Napoleon in the background.

“Mr. Solo, I would have thought you would be heading back to New York by now. There is no need for you to be here.”

“Am I still head of Section II?” Napoleon asked politely.

“Yes, of course.” Waverly appeared surprised by the question.

“Then I need to be here.”

With a “Humph,” Waverly turned his attention back to Ferenti and Samoy. Napoleon was no longer paying attention, Illya’s entrance distracting him.

Illya, alert and cuffed, was brought out between the same two giants Napoleon had encountered on his first visit. They had obviously seen to it that he looked presentable for Illya was attired in his usual black. Standing straight and tall, the Russian held his head high, as the charges were read to him. He never once looked in Napoleon’s direction. Napoleon was discouraged to note that Illya appeared resigned to his fate and was distancing himself from the proceedings.

Calling the session to order, Ferenti soon had Grubber presenting the evidence against Illya. Grubber seemed to take great pleasure in pointing out each item, one after the other, thereby tightening the proverbial noose around the Russian’s neck. Napoleon pulled a folder toward him, pretending not to be paying any attention. In the long run it really didn’t matter. Napoleon had his own agenda.

“Mr. Kuryakin, do you have anything to say for yourself?” Waverly’s voice broke through Napoleon’s thoughts.

“No, sir.”

“Then, if there is nothing more…”

Napoleon stood up, interrupting. “I would like to ask for a brief recess so that I may consult with my client.”

“I do not wish to be your client,” Illya retorted bitterly, loud enough that everyone heard it. He had insisted on refusing counsel ever since the psychologist had finished with him, not that he had any choice, however. When Illya had signed the papers that allowed the testing, he had also unintentionally signed papers giving Napoleon power of attorney. The sneak.

“Shut up,” Napoleon urged him out of the side of his mouth, his attention on the monitors.

Waverly looked disgruntled. “Very well, Mr. Solo. You may have ten minutes, while we deliberate.”

Napoleon nodded and moved over to the table where Illya sat. Illya crossed his arms and stared angrily at the tabletop; not willing to look his partner in the eye.

Napoleon had already noted all of the monitoring devices placed around the room. He paced back and force in front of the table ranting heatedly, saying the first thing that popped into his head. Surreptitiously, he pulled an extra button off of his cuff before slamming his fist down hard on the table. 

People were carefully ignoring his performance. Everyone that is except Grubber. Blocking Grubber’s view, Napoleon leaned across the table and gripped Illya’s jaw. “Look at me when I’m talking to you,” Napoleon hissed loud enough to be heard. Illya jerked his head back, his eyes spitting fire, but not before Napoleon slipped the button into his mouth. 

“Bite,” Napoleon commanded harshly. No one but Illya heard the command and surprisingly the Russian automatically obeyed. Satisfied, Napoleon carried his act to its conclusion. Raising his hands in disgust Napoleon blurted out, “Fine have it your way.” He then stormed out of the room without looking back, and missed the Russian’s puzzled expression.

Once the door shut behind him, Napoleon leaned against the wall, and awaited the pandemonium that he knew would occur. Mentally counting to three, he wasn’t surprised when loud voices could be heard from the room. On cue, Napoleon reentered the room and surveyed the scene.

Ferenti was shouting into the intercom. The monitors on the wall showed Waverly and Samoy standing behind their desks, astonishment written upon their faces. Grubber was standing, his mouth open in incomprehension. Illya lay crumpled on the floor. A gurney was wheeled through the door and Napoleon playing his part, caught hold of the stenographer as she moved out of the way. “What happened?” he demanded.

The stenographer shook her head, her hand to her mouth. The medical people were working over the Russian’s body. One of technicians looked up from his labors. It became abundantly clear that there was no pulse and raising his eyes to his superior he shook his head sadly. 

Grubber pushed forward. “You can’t mean to say that he’s dead,” he demanded angrily. To have this happen when he was so close to having the Russian convicted made his blood boil.

“Oui, ce Fini,” the tech said as he and his associate picked up the body, loading it on the gurney.

Ferenti had turned back to the monitors, discussing the latest development. Grubber’s voice resounded in Napoleon’s ears, making it hard for him to hear what was being said. 

Flicking off the monitors, Ferenti turned in Solo’s direction. “It would appear that the verdict is now immaterial.”

Pretending to be dazed, Napoleon asked, “What do you plan now?”

“His body will be returned to the Soviet Union. What they do with it …,” Ferenti shrugged.

“I would like to make the arrangements.” Napoleon requested. “He was my partner … and my friend.”

“As you wish.” Ferenti rose from his chair, dismissing the whole episode. There were other more important things that he needed to see to. “Talk with our legal department about arrangements.”

Gathering up the papers into his briefcase, Napoleon left the room. He ended up spending far too much time arguing with the legal department before making his way to the infirmary. From there he was directed to the morgue. Illya’s nude body lay upon a table, the pathologist, held his scalpel in position, ready to make an incision.

“Stop! What are you doing?” Napoleon shouted horrified. 

Halting his actions, the pathologist turned toward the man who had interrupted. “For the record ve need to know the cause of death.”

Napoleon was momentarily paralyzed. What excuse could he use to stop this? Fortunately his problem was solved by the appearance of a young woman dressed in white, her dark hair pulled back in a bun. The young woman proceeded to ignore Napoleon and without a word handed a clipboard to the pathologist.

The pathologist studied the clipboard. “It seems all in order.” Then he turned and ordered the body to be prepared for transport.

***

Napoleon followed, praying nothing would go wrong. Illya’s body was loaded into a white van and the young woman shut the door with finality, climbed into the van, signed a clipboard and drove away. Napoleon stood there for some moments before walking to a waiting taxi. Two miles later, both van and taxi pulled over. The young driver burst out of the back of the van, throwing a dazzling smile in Napoleon’s direction as she plucked hairpins and shook her head, letting the dark strands flow down to her shoulders.

“Carlie, I didn't pensa vederlo qui?” Carlie, I didn’t expect to see you here?

“E ciao a voi anche, Napoleone,” Carlotta teased, her green eyes dancing in her heart shaped face as she pulled Napoleon into an embrace. “ Ho pensato che non desideraste chiunque altrimenti coinvolgere.” And hello to you too, Napoleon. I thought you would not want anyone else involved.

Reaching into the van’s cab, she pulled out a folded pile of papers. “I have given your friend the antidote. He should be out for lle altre coppie delle ore … another couple of hours though. You did not tell me he was so cute.” 

“Tut tut, Carlie. You’re a happily married woman,” Napoleon admonished, a warm smile lighting his face as he looked down at her.

“That does not keep me from looking and enjoying.” She laughed, then returned back to business. “Your bagaglio … luggage will be retrieved and I should deliver it to you sometime in the next few days. Everything else has been taken care of. Here is a map with sensi … how you say … directions to the house.” Patting Napoleon on the cheek, she spoke fondly, “One day you really must tell me what this is all about. Fino a che non li veda ancora. il mio fratello. Arrivederci.” Until I see you again, my brother. Goodbye.

Blowing a kiss and waving, she watched the American agent climb into the cab of the van and drive away.

***

As consciousness returned, Illya, his mind in a familiar drug haze, kept his eyes closed. When he heard nothing, he opened them, taking stock of everything around him. He was in a room filled with sturdy furniture, most of which was covered by once white cloth. Upon considering his feelings on what had happened, he couldn’t decide on whether to be angry or resigned. He slowly became aware of two things. One, that he was lying on a soft mattress with a soft sheet holding him down and two, that he had not a stitch of clothing on. His last recollection was of standing awaiting a verdict on how he was to be dealt with. His memory seemed to go into reverse as visions of Napoleon storming out of the conference room, Napoleon slipping something into his mouth, commanding him to bite, and finally Napoleon visiting him in his cell flitted through his mind.

Illya remembered lying in his cell, curled into a little ball, trying desperately not to feel anything. He had really blown it this time. Done the unforgivable and he was going to pay dearly for it. But that had been his intention all along, hadn’t it? He just did not know anymore.

He had many acquaintances, but few true friends. Napoleon was one of the few, it was the nature of their work that made this so. The rejection had hurt far more than he expected it to when, after his birthday, Napoleon started pushing him away. He was far more human than anyone, even he, would have thought. When former associates of a time long past had approached him with this ill advised plan, Illya had no resistance left. Death would have been a release at this point.

It pained him to think of his birthday. It should have been one of his best. Napoleon had surprised him with tickets to see the Russian Ballet, and then surprised him further by joining him. Of course he had soon realized Napoleon’s ulterior motive, as Napoleon paid rapt attention to the dancer’s bodies and not their performance. Nothing new there. The chance meeting with one of Napoleon’s friends had been puzzling. Napoleon, whose manners were impeccable, had not bothered to introduce them. 

Napoleon had stayed silent for a while, after his friend left them. Out of the blue, Napoleon asked if he was hungry. Was the pope Catholic? Illya had expected them to go to one of their usual haunts. The place Napoleon had taken him had been new to him, though Napoleon seemed well known. He hadn’t paid much attention to the décor, just to the food, which was excellent as Napoleon had promised. When Napoleon hurriedly left the table, Illya had been in the midst of gastronomical delight. It was only as he glanced up at the mirror sitting over Napoleon’s chair, spotting Napoleon leaning ever so closely toward another man that he took more notice of his surroundings. Napoleon returned to the table seeming ill at ease and the meal had ended on that note.

It was all like a bad dream. He still didn’t understand. From that day on, Napoleon had gradually distanced himself. When they spoke, Napoleon never quite looked him in the eye. Soon they were sent on separate assignments. Illya reacted the only way he knew how. He withdrew from everyone and everything, until soon there was no one and nothing left that could hurt him. Yet he wouldn’t even admit to himself that he had been hurt, could feel pain. When his former associates approached him, he didn’t have the will to refuse.

There was no point in rehashing all this. He had made his bed and now he must sleep in it. Speaking of which, he listened intently, there were still no sounds that he could discern. Illya threw back the covers, finding a tag attached to his big toe. Bending his leg, bringing his foot closer, he pulled it off and examined it. On it listed his name, a date … and a time of death? 

He sat there staring at it, when a faint noise caught his attention. Questions assaulted his mind. How had he come here? Where was here? Was he in the hands of friends or enemies? Too many questions.

He slipped out of the bed, intent on finding answers. Wherever he was, there was someone else here. Someone who could tell him what was going on. Wrapping his nude body in the sheet toga fashion he started for the door, falling against it as dizziness took over. Shaking his head to clear it, he tried the door. It was unlocked. 

Going out unarmed was suicide. Illya looked around for some sort of weapon and found none. Pulling the sheet closer around him, he cracked open the door. The noise, whatever it was, had stopped and he could see no one. Silently he slipped out of the room. Another wave of dizziness hit him and he found himself hugging the wall. Spotting a stairwell, he started toward it, keeping his hand on the wall for support. He had descended halfway down, keeping a firm grip on the handrail, when Napoleon appeared at the bottom.

“You! I should have known,” the Russian snarled, in mock anger, relieved he was not in enemy hands. 

Napoleon’s startled face looked upward, the tray he was carrying slipped from his hands.

Illya let go of the railing to hold up the toe tag he’d held tightly in his grasp. “Would you care to tell me what this is all about,” he demanded. A big mistake as it turned out. The tag fluttered to the floor as a wave of dizziness hit and Illya started to fall. Napoleon moved fast and Illya found himself safely wrapped in Napoleon’s arms. Illya’s thought processes were not up to par or he wouldn’t have stayed there, enjoying the feeling of strong arms gathering him up, holding him close. A small sigh escaped as he rested his head on a broad shoulder.

Gentle hands lifted Illya’s jaw and he looked into concerned brown eyes. “Are you alright?”

“You’re looking at me,” Illya babbled in amazement. “You haven’t looked directly at me in ages.” When Napoleon’s eyes slid away he was sorry he had said it.

“Let’s get you back to bed. Can you stand?”

Indignation and just a tad of anger surged through the Russian. “Of course I can.” And he promptly proved the opposite, by trying to untangle himself and stand up, not succeeding well at all. He drifted along both mentally and physically, as Napoleon guided him up the stairway, murmuring as he went, “Illya, I am - so sorry. This is all - my fault.” down the hall to another bedroom, not the one he had awoken in. Illya silently agreed as he was manhandled onto a bed, pillows and blankets tucked around him. His eyes closed and he was drifting off again when the words finally sunk in. Opening his eyes, Illya saw Napoleon at the window looking out, his posture not the one of confidence that Illya was used to seeing.

“What do you mean, it is your fault?” 

Napoleon had pulled back the curtain and was gazing out. “I should never have taken you … there. You never would have known.” 

Known? What is it he knew? Illya’s mind flashed on images from the club … the elegance … all men … the reflection in the mirror … the look on Napoleon’s face when he returned, a sharp contrast. Napoleon had not wanted him to know? Was he … ashamed? 

As if reading his mind Napoleon admitted, “Yes, I was embarrassed.” His eyes met Illya’s disbelieving gaze. “Okay, so it was the height of stupidity. Sue me. And your excuse was?”

The corner of Illya’s lips twitched in amusement. “For doing what I did? Much the same. Sheer stupidity,” he, too, admitted.

Shaking his head in disgust, Napoleon mused, “We don’t deserve to be agents.”

Illya, feeling more like himself then he had in quite a while, shot back, “In that case, perhaps it is just as well that I am dead.”

Napoleon raised an eyebrow at that. “Soooo, can you forgive me … my perversion?”

The irony of it started Illya laughing. Napoleon turned to narrow his eyes at him. Once he’d gotten his breath back, Illya tried to explain. “Napoleon, I served my naval duty aboard a submarine.”

“So?”

“With a hundred and sixteen other men.” Illya paused, waiting for Napoleon to show signs of comprehension. “In very tight quarters … for six months.” 

Napoleon’s mouth opened as understanding sank in. “You mean … you’ve … Does that mean you’re not … offended?”

Illya bolted from the bed letting the sheet wrapped around him fall to the floor, standing arrogantly naked and only swaying slightly. “Yes, of course I am offended. Offended that you did not trust me with the truth.” 

Napoleon was staring at him, his eyes conveying a myriad of emotions. Shock, surprise, and … lust? Then doubt.

Illya stood his ground, chin raised defiantly and waited. The next move was Napoleon’s.

Napoleon had never thought … never considered …, but Illya seemed willing and Napoleon was only human. Lust won out, and Illya sank back onto the bed as Napoleon slowly removed his tie, then started on the buttons of his shirt. 

They were going at this too fast, but Illya didn’t want to think. He was tired of thinking. Judging by the bulge in Napoleon’s boxers, he was not thinking either. By the time Napoleon’s boxers hit the floor, Illya was not only aroused but irritated. Not only was Napoleon two inches taller then he, it appeared he was two inches longer as well.

Napoleon noticed Illya’s angry glare and looked down at the source. “Is there a problem?”

“No,” came the terse reply.

“Il-ly-a!” Napoleon growled. 

Enough problems had been caused by not letting the truth be known and Illya realized it at the same time as his partner. But how to word it. “There is no problem. It is just … it is bad enough that you have two inches on me in height … must you be …” he concluded.

Napoleon looked down at the source of his partner’s ire. “You’re not that much smaller.” Slipping onto the bed, Napoleon did what he did best. Cupping his hands behind his partner’s neck, Napoleon pulled him forward and brought their lips together in a kiss. Before he could deepen it however, a hand on his chest pushed him away.

“There are much better things one can do with one’s mouth.”

“Ummm, I’m told I’m pretty good with that, too.” Napoleon pushed up on one elbow to look Illya in the eye and wiggle his eyebrows suggestively. He moved his lips lower, intending to tease a pert nipple.

“Nap-po-leon!” Illya growled. He grabbed Napoleon’s head forcing that infuriating mouth to his painfully aroused organ. Not surprising, Napoleon was extremely talented in that area as well. Soon Illya was thrusting energetically into the warm, moist mouth. It wasn’t long before he felt his testicles tighten and he was shooting his load into his partner’s eagerly awaiting orifice. Thoroughly sated, Illya sank down onto the bed, limp, lax and enjoyably worn out.

Napoleon, licking his lips, looked up from his labors. Illya’s eyes were closed, his body stretched wantonly out upon the bedspread. Scooting closer to the object of his desire, Napoleon chanted softly. “Il-lly-aaa.” 

“Ummm,” came the drowsy reply, as the Russian turned, slipping into his partner’s arms. Oh well, the man had been drugged several times over the past week. He had a right to be tired. Napoleon, though aroused, had not gotten much sleep either for that matter. With a heavy sigh of disappointment Napoleon curled around his smaller friend and muttered, “You’re only an inch and a half shorter.”

Napoleon woke up a couple of hours later to find himself alone in bed. Pulling on his clothing, he went in search of his absent partner. He didn’t have far to go. In the next room he found Illya lying face down on the bed.

Napoleon stared at the body spread out so suggestively upon the mattress. Illya had evidently gathered up his sheet from the floor where he had left it, for it now lightly covered his lower region. His feet were uncovered, spread at least two feet apart. Napoleon wanted nothing more than to join him on that bed and replace the sheet with his body. There was a problem. If Illya had wanted company, he would have stayed where he was. He let out a heavy sigh of frustration and made his way down the stairs, stopping to pick up the toe tag, stuffing it into his pocket. 

A cluster of broken glass lay scattered at the bottom of the stairs and Napoleon stooped to gather them up. He needed something to occupy his mind. To get it off the pleasures he had sought for so long to ignore. He hadn’t really given consideration as to what would happen once he had retrieved Illya from the Geneva office and he certainly hadn’t expect what did happen. Illya’s response to his confession had been most puzzling. His stomach growled, taking his thoughts off in another direction. He might as well fix them something to eat. At least Illya’s response to that would not be in doubt.

***

Knocking on the door frame, Napoleon watched as Illya twisted around suddenly, managing to keep the sheet in place, and sat up. Illya’s eyes lit up with delight as he saw the tray filled with food that Napoleon brought into the room. Scooting back to sit against the headboard, Illya received the offered tray and attacked the food with gusto. 

Napoleon walked to the window and looked out, wishing Illya would bring the passion he used to attack food into the bedroom. He was unprepared when Illya spoke.

“I’m sorry, Napoleon, for leaving you high and dry. I’ll be happy to make up for it in any way you want,” Illya said, around bits of fresh bread. When Napoleon did not respond he looked over at him. “Is something wrong?”

Napoleon shook his head and continued to stare out of the window. 

“Come here,” the Russian’s voice commanded, patting the side of his bed.

Napoleon reluctantly walked over and stood there, not bringing his brown eyes into contact with the blue ones that were appraising him with concern. He felt nimble fingers reach into his pocket and pull out the toe tag. He had all but forgotten about that.

Illya looked down at the writing on the tag and shook his shaggy head. Waving the tag in front of the American, his voice holding a tinge of amusement, he asked, “Was this really necessary?”

Napoleon shrugged, irritation flaring through him at the question. “It was the best I could come up with on short notice.”

“But why do anything? Why not just leave me to my fate,” Illya persisted. 

Napoleon turned and sat heavily down on the bed. Why had he? Hadn’t they gone over this last night? Hadn’t he admitted his reasons? Repeating them would not change anything. He felt Illya’s hand gripping his arm and knew he had to say something. He took a deep breath. “If I had been there, with you ... for you, when you needed me …” Maybe things wouldn't have gone as far as they had. But had Illya ever really needed him? A knock at the front door downstairs interrupted his thoughts. Grateful for the interruption, he pushed himself off the bed and headed down the stairs.

***

Napoleon’s mood was dark as he answered the door. He opened it and with her back to him stood Carlie.

“Carlie,” he called out pleasantly, bringing her attention around to him.

“Ciao, Napoleone.” She planted a kiss upon his cheek before surging past him into the entranceway. Laying her purse on a covered table near the door, she turned around surveying the interior. “It has been a long time since I was last here,” she reminisced softly to herself.

“I want to thank you, Carlie. You didn’t have to do this.”

“Don’t be silly, Napoleone. It was nothing and I very much enjoyed it.” She glanced up the stairway. “Do I get a formal introduction to your friend?”

Napoleon hesitated, remembering Illya’s current state of undress. “Not now. Perhaps later.”

Charlotte gave an elaborate shrug. “As you wish. How is his Italianio?”

Napoleon chuckled and Carlie joined in, then she moved to retrieve her purse. “Here are your new passports.” She handed them over. “Other documents will be supplied once you have decided on your plans. The rest of your luggage is in the automobile.”

Napoleon opened the passports, checking them. An English one for Illya in the name of Phillip Kovak. An Italian one for him in the name of… “Domenico Caputo?”

Carlotta laughed. “It is a real name. It happens to be the name of my older brother … my other older brother,” she corrected.

“I didn’t know you had one.”

“There is much we do not know about each other. Family you know nothing about. One day we must have a long talk. Si?” Carlotta Caputo Rossetti said.

“Si.” Napoleon recognized the truth in that. It was the same with his partner. He was realizing there was quite a bit about Illya he was not aware of and even more about himself that he had never revealed to his partner.

“Come,” Carlotta commanded, taking him by the wrist and pulling him out the door.

***

Illya could hear voices floating up from downstairs and wondered if they would come up. The chuckling he heard caused his curiosity to get the better of him. Carefully he set aside the tray and slid off of the bed, moving toward the window, parting the curtains to look out. A young woman, wearing a warm brown suit and matching hat, was pulling his partner toward a bright red Ferrari. He moved closer to the window, from this distance he could not make out her features. As Napoleon pulled two large cases from the trunk, she turned and looked up at the very window he was standing at. He pulled back, embarrassed to be caught without clothes and watching, when she flashed a smile and winked, reminding him of someone. 

***

“Ah, your amico is even more attractive than I remember,” she said slyly to Napoleon. 

“You saw?” Napoleon looked up toward the window in question, but the curtains were once more in place.

“Ummm, very nice.” Carlotta saved waving her hands to fan herself. “His body is bella … so fantastico.” 

Napoleon’s face turned an amusing shade of red. “Devo ricordarvi... che siete sposati?” Must I remind you … you are married?

“Must you?” Carlotta’s lovely face took on a pout. “Arrivederci. Sapete raggiungerlo se lo avete bisogno di,” Goodbye. You know how to reach me if you need me. she said with a laugh, before sliding into the driver’s seat, putting the Ferrari into gear and zooming away.

***

Napoleon lugged the two large cases up the stairs, chucked them on the bed and sat heavily between them.

“She’s very lovely,” the Russian voiced wistfully.

Napoleon looked at the picture his partner made standing next to the window, his breath caught in his throat. Carlotta was right, Illya was beautiful. “Yes, she is. She’s also married.”

“That has never stopped you before, my friend,” Illya stated, moving toward the bed, unconscious of any effect he might be having on his partner. 

Napoleon wrenched his mind from his lascivious thoughts. “Huh. I may be a pervert, but I draw the line at incest.”

Illya moved much too close. “Who says you are perverted?” He frowned. “Incest? I have seen your personnel record. There is no mention of siblings. That I do know.”

“Do you?” Napoleon rose off the bed, clicked the latch on one of the suitcases, opened it and moved away. 

A delighted grin flashed on Illya’s face. “My clothes!” he enthused as he rummaged through, pulling items out and dressing.

With a sigh of disappointment, Napoleon grabbed the other case and headed for his bedroom. Illya tucked his shirt into his slacks and, barefooted, followed in close pursuit. “Do I not?” he prodded as Napoleon placed the suitcase on the bed.

“It’s a long story.” Napoleon warned him. Illya, arms crossing his chest, made himself comfortable. He pulled his feet up on the bed and waited expectantly. “Okay … short version,” Napoleon said. “When my grandfather died, he left me a key to a safety deposit box along with instructions that no one else in the family was supposed to know about it.” Illya’s eyebrows rose under his blond bangs. “I was about to ship out for Korea at the time, but I made time to go open the safety deposit box.” He paused remembering that trip in his new dress uniform. “There was a letter and some documents. The letter was addressed to me. I had known that my father happened to be in Italy after Italy allied itself with Hitler. Actually, he didn’t just happen to be here, he was sent.”

“Your father was a spy?”

“Kinda, sorta. Who’s telling this story? Anyway, Gramp’s letter said that Dad had this … fling with Carlotta’s mother.”

“Does Waverly know?”

Napoleon shook his head. “Outside of you, only Carlotta and I know. After the war, Carlotta’s mother contacted my grandfather, telling him about Carlotta. My father was already dead by that time.” He stopped his narrative as he remembered his sick grandfather’s letter. 

She insisted that the child is your father’s. I have no choice but to believe her. I have seen the child and she bares the same mark as do you. The mother was dying. An honorable woman, she did not want money, she just wanted her daughter to be cared for. Your mother and grandmother do not know, and I would prefer that it be kept that way. I have done what I could for the child, but I need someone to continue after I am gone. She is ten years younger than you. You must promise to keep this secret for me.

“After Korea, I was at loose ends, so I stopped over to check up on her.” He laughed softly. “She knew me right away; evidently my father had given her mother a picture of me. We decided to keep everything secret; she said it was more fun that way. When I needed help she was the first one I thought of. This is her home. As it happens she works for Italy’s intelligence community.”

“So spies run in your family?”

Napoleon laughed. “I guess you could say that.”

Illya turned on his side upon the bed, his head resting on his fist. “Now tell me why it is I had to die. And now that I am dead what am I to do?”

“It seemed the easiest thing at the time. As for what you do … well anything you want. With your degrees you can just about do anything.”

“Ah, but there is the rub. With my death, there went my degrees.”

“So we’ll get you new ones.” Napoleon reached into his jacket pocket and tossed the passports over.

Illya rolled over on his back, the better to check the passports out. He nodded at his and set it aside, then he checked Solo’s and laughed out loud. He was still chuckling when he passed it back to his partner. “Why do you need a passport? Surely you will be going back to U.N.C.L.E.?”

“I thought about it. But what would be the point of going back. I don’t feel up to explaining what I did with your body.”

Illya licked his lips seductively. “You mean what you have been doing with my body?”

Napoleon’s glance was a cross of irritation and odd affection.

Illya decided it was time to change the subject. “Napoleon, even with a passport … and new degrees, what then?”

“Well, you are more than welcome to stay here,” Napoleon said as he opened his own case, pulling a briefcase out. “And this should help.” He opened the briefcase, turning it to face Illya. The inside was filled with stacks of bills. Large bills.

“Just which bank did you rob?”

“None. I’ve made some good investments over the years and before I left New York I cashed it all in … lock, stock and barrel.”

“I cannot take this.”

“Of course you can. It’s my fault you’re dead,” Napoleon said, taking his suits out and hanging them in a nearby armoire. 

Illya regarded his partner. Getting off the bed, he unbuttoned his shirt as he silently moved behind his partner and blew on his ear. “And what of us?”

Napoleon froze in the act of straightening his suits, fire tingling down to his groin. “What would you like to happen?”

Illya moved back to the bed, unbuttoning his slacks as he went. “I am not adverse to our …” his slacks were on the way to floor when he found himself flat on his back, an amorous Solo claiming his lips. He pushed Napoleon away. “Now about this kissing. Is it really necessary?”

“Huh, no,” Napoleon answered, more then a little puzzled.

“Then why do it?”

“Because it’s enjoyable?”

“For one of us,” Illya muttered under his breath. 

Napoleon frowned. “You don’t enjoy kissing?”

“It’s not a matter of enjoy …”

“Oh, but it is,” Napoleon interrupted. “It’s a matter of sexual gratification.” His kissed Illya’s luscious mouth. “Self indulgence.” His tongu lapped one of Illya’s nipples. “Lustful desires.”

“Ahhh.” Illya’s body arched and he gasped. “Napoleon, my lustful desires need for you to pick up the pace.”

“All right then. Turn over.”

Illya turned over, splaying his legs looking as he had earlier, only without a sheet to cover his taut ass. Napoleon held his breath, feeling his cock expand just looking at the picture his partner made spread out so seductively. Napoleon reached into his case, searching for the lubricant he kept in his shaving kit. Finding it, he pushed the suitcase off the bed, not caring that everything in it scattered on the floor. His mind could only focus on one thing, as he poured the lotion onto his fingers, making them slippery enough to prepare his partner. Illya was kneeling, the weight of his body supported on his elbows, ready to be taken. Lightly Napoleon ran his finger down the crease and smiled when Illya arched into his touch. Teasing the opening he gently inserted one finger into the anal opening. 

Illya’s head turned toward him, “What are you doing?”

“I’m stretching you.”

“You are what?” 

The exclamation, surprising him, caused Napoleon to pause and withdraw his finger.

“Stretching you. So I won’t hurt you.”

“Really, Napoleon, you will not hurt me.” Illya wiggled his rear. “At least not badly.”

“You’ve never been stretched before?” Napoleon asked, appalled. His initiation into the world of male sex had been with partners who prepared him before penetration. He had always thought that was done with everyone.

Illya sighed. How does one explain how it was aboard a sub where there were more men than beds and some of those men had sex drives that rivaled Solo’s own. “It just wasn’t done.”

“I don’t care if it wasn’t done. Just when was the last time you did this?”

“I don’t remember.”

“Days? Months? Years?”

Illya let out an exasperated sigh. “Years.”

“Same here,” Napoleon admitted. “Let me show you how much better it can be.”

“Very well,” Illya said with resignation, twitching his ass again. “You may proceed.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty.” 

Illya didn’t have to see Napoleon to hear the smile of satisfaction in his voice. “I didn’t know you were such a control freak.”

“Control is the name of the game,” Napoleon said as he reinserted a finger, pushing it all the way in and twisting it until it touched the nub that sent spasms of pleasure through the Russian’s body. 

“Ahhhhh.”

“Would you like me to stop?” Napoleon leaned closer to whisper in Illya’s ear, as he added another finger twisting and scissoring them, widening the opening.

Illya growled. “You do and I will…”

Napoleon chuckled as he removed his fingers, pouring more lubricant to coat his hardened cock. He smiled at the shiver that ran through Illya as he ran his hand lightly down Illya’s spine and spread the cheeks to position himself at the hidden opening. He held his movement, considering the wisdom of what he was about to do, until Illya pushed back with determination. Holding Illya’s hips, with one steady thrust he was in. Slow and easy, he pistoned in and out of his partner’s body, vaguely aware of the moans of pleasure issuing from somewhere. 

It had been a long while since he enjoyed this special feeling of tightness around his cock. He tried to hold off, hoping to draw out Illya’s enjoyment. Illya, however, was remaining motionless under him making Napoleon wonder if he was enjoying it at all. Napoleon stopped, planning to withdraw completely.

“Don’t stop,” Illya begged, breathing heavily.

“Are you sure?” Napoleon asked doubtfully.

“Quite … sure. Please.”

Caressing the slender hips, Napoleon again began pumping, moving ever faster as the ecstasy of the moment hit him. Illya’s shout of delight and the spasm around his cock let him know that Illya too had gone over the edge. One final thrust and he was shooting capriciously into the warm cavern. Napoleon rolled limply to one side, trying to get his breathing back to normal. One hand strayed to Illya’s silky bottom, stroking it.

Once Napoleon’s breathing had evened out, he reached to pull Illya close, only to find his partner getting out of the bed.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

“Back to my room.”

“Why?”

“Surely you didn’t expect me to stay? Do you normally stay with someone after an encounter?”

“No … not always,” Napoleon said contemplatively. “Anyway, it’s not like you have to be somewhere.”

“Ah … that is true. I had not considered that. Am I to conclude that you would rather I stayed?”

“Conclude away.”

“Work with someone for years and you think you know them,” Illya mused as he lay back on the bed. “I suppose now you will profess undying love for me.”

Napoleon pulled the Russian closer, the better to snuggle and chuckled. “You have been reading too many romance novels.”

“I don’t read romance novels,” Illya said, sighing as he made himself comfortable. “This has been most enjoyable, but we need to think of the future.”

“We don’t need to think of it right now, do we?” Napoleon asked drowsily.

“There is no time like the present,” Illya said sternly. “Perhaps it would be best if we went our separate ways, yes?”

Napoleon disturbed himself from his contented position long enough to look the Russian in the eye. “I don’t think so,” he said with great deliberateness. “Illya, you and I are two of a kind. Different in many ways, yet alike. Stuck together to the bitter end.”

“And that does not disturb you?” Illya asked with amusement, his hands laced behind his head.

Napoleon leaned over the relaxed man, twining their legs together. “Nah. I find I have grown accustomed to your face ...” He kissed the pliant lips. “Your neck …” He rained kisses on the arched neck. “Your cock …” A burst of hearty laughter met his ear. He paused in his kissing to look Illya in the face. “Can you live with that?”

Illya stopped laughing. “This past year was not good. I kept telling myself it did not matter. I did not need your friendship. That we were too close.”

“Not as close as we are now.” Napoleon reminded him, then proving his point laid his head upon Illya’s chest, listening to his heartbeat.

Illya combed his fingers through the dark strands. “Nothing seemed to matter. I guess that is why I did what I did.” He paused, then after a moment stopped waiting for a sarcastic reply. When none came, he ventured. “Napoleon?” He twisted his head to look down at Napoleon’s face. A smile spread across his Slavic features. The choice was easily made; after all they were two of a kind.


End file.
